


A Study in Masochism

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Asphyxiation, Dominance, First Time, M/M, Masochism, Mentions of Rape, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Sherlock Holmes, Rough Sex, Submission, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-24 02:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What are you doing?"</p><p>"Whatever I want," he answered quietly. </p><p>A shiver raced down his spine at the announcement but he did his best to ignore it. "You don't want this."</p><p>"Don't I?" He looked Sherlock up and down. "Don't you?"</p><p>"Irrelevant. This isn't want you really want. You're just angry."</p><p>"God damn right I'm angry," he quietly growled. "Two years. Wasted. And for what? So you could gallivant across the globe without me, loosen the reigns a bit with the dull side kick off your back?" He opened his mouth to argue but John snapped, "Shut up. I'm not finished," and he smashed his lips shut on command. "You want the truth? You started something in the restaurant, and I won't be satisfied until I've finished it. Are we clear?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Masochism

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place just after the reunion. The variation comes when John isn't kidnapped before he goes to Baker Street, but after. It's straight out of the depths of my twisted mind, where my dirtiest kinks lay mostly dormant. Apologies to anyone who follows me on Tumblr, sees how many baby animals I blog about and is completely baffled by this. Sort of coming out of left field, I know. Read the tags and choose wisely. For the brave souls who embark on this trip, have fun. ;)

Sherlock could only wonder at the fact that he hadn't even wondered. There had not been one inclining, not one single niggling doubt as to the nature of the date John had been on, nor how his impromptu appearance would affect the outcome of said date. He hadn't cared honestly. He remembered thinking, _So what? He's on a date. Wouldn't be the first time I've crashed one and thanks to my return, it won't be the last._ That was before he deduced John's suit, his fidgeting, his nervous sweat and promptly lost all confidence in the endeavor. He should have seen it, should have deduced the significance before he was surprised into behaving like a fool. Posh restaurant, out of John's usual price range, high probability the date was important, obviously. John was going to propose to this mystery woman. He knew then he'd been forgotten, consigned to the past as if he were just a fond memory. The mustache bothered him, now he knew why, sign of a major life change. Damn Mycroft and his smug smile. He could have warned him at the very least. Perhaps his allusions to John not exactly being happy to see him was supposed to have done that but when had he ever heeded Mycroft? Never. Well, he'd paid the price for that, hadn't he? So stupid not to have seen it. Idiotic. French waiter? Really, what had he been thinking?

Sherlock smashed his face further into the couch cushion in a hopeless effort to disappear in the nether. The vague memory of a childhood story swept across his consciousness, something about a portal to another dimension in a wardrobe. Perhaps he should try walking into his, see where that got him, because the couch wasn't getting him anywhere. He leapt up and marched to the bookcase, certain the book was still in his possession, a fruitless attempt at distraction, when he heard the door open downstairs.

His head whipped to the sound, nerves sizzled with anticipation. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs in her kitchen(fish stew, disgusting), Mycroft had at least two and a half stone on whoever was currently making their way up the stairs, he didn't expect anyone else to check on him. Oh, who was he kidding? He knew the owner of that gait; could place it amongst a thousand others.

A statue would have been more animate than he was in that moment, when the door to 221b swung open to reveal John Watson, looking better than any man had a right to in his black Haversack, sans ridiculous mustache, thank God. Guilt, shame, embarrassment, these things used to be foreign to Sherlock. Not anymore. He could only hope they didn't show on his face. And elsewhere.

  
"John," he greeted softly, surprise unwillingly colored his voice. He noted, gratefully, that John seemed just as surprised, shock he guessed, at actually seeing Sherlock standing in the sitting room for the first time in two years.

  
"Sherlock," he answered after clearing his throat. He looked around the room, hesitant to continue until he was ready, and Sherlock waited patiently. Whatever had brought him home(not home, not anymore) he would wait and take whatever John gave him. The fiancee, Mary, had promised to talk him round. That was four days ago.

  
"Reading?" John queried.

  
Sherlock cocked his head in confusion before he remembered the book in his hand. He looked down at it in surprise(The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis) and promptly chucked it into the kitchen. "No."

  
John's eyes followed the sailing book and then trailed back to Sherlock. "All right."

  
"Tea," he cried out and marched toward the kitchen, kicking the book out of the way as he went. "I'll make some tea. I believe Mrs. Hudson bought some of that Raspberry Twinings that you liked. It's in here somewhere, give me just a second," he rambled as he tossed foodstuffs off the shelves in search of the tea. Tea would rectify everything. It had to.

  
"Stop. Just stop."

  
Sherlock froze in terror. What had he done now? Was tea a trigger of some kind? Had he deleted a tea related incident?

  
"I'm sorry?" He asked softly, hands still buried in the cupboard.

  
"I can't sit and have tea with you as if this is just another day...like it's some sort of normal..." He clenched his fists and looked away without finishing.

  
"Oh," he muttered lamely, still not sure what he was supposed to do. He did belatedly remember to remove his hands from the shelf though, and decided to turn fully toward John. "I assume you came to talk, John. You're more than welcome to do that."

  
John pursed his lips and nodded. "More than welcome," he repeated, still staring at the floor.

This was it. The moment John confronted him about _The Incident._ He thought he'd have more time, he purposefully hadn't given it a thought since it had happened. Deleting wasn't an option, as he knew John would eventually demand an answer, but how he wished he could. He squared his shoulders, for a brief moment his instinct demanded he react in anger, pull his arrogance up around himself like armor, but he couldn't risk running John off. Too late he realized his mistake when John mirrored his stance, his brows lowered in a simmering rage.

  
"Ask," he demanded of John. "I know you want to, just get it over with."

  
John smiled but it wasn't in amusement. "You'd rather we ignore it, yeah?"

  
"If you'd allow." He looked down at his microscope, for lack of anything else to stare at. Anything he was allowed to stare at.

  
"I don't allow," he spit out. Sherlock flinched. "You don't get to do this." He stepped forward into the kitchen. "You don't get to leave me-" He cut that off before it turned confessional, but Sherlock understood it just the same. "You _left_. You chose to leave. You can't just waltz back and expect things to be the same as before. And you certainly can't expect...that."

  
"No!" He shook his head vehemently. "It isn't like that. I would never expect that." His face was turning red, he could feel it.

  
"Really?" John condescended. "Could have fooled me." He crossed his arms. It should have looked petulant, submissive. It didn't. He looked livid, ready to storm the castle, as it were. "You know the real irony? If I had known you were capable, if I had even the slightest hint, things might have been different. But it's too late now. You left me here, alone. Do you understand what you did leaving me here alone? Do you?" He demanded.

  
Sherlock couldn't speak, so he shook his head in the negative. His throat had closed up and thought had flown right out the window at 'Things might have been different.'

"Of course you don't," he chuckled morosely. "I called you a machine. Do you remember?" Sherlock nodded in the affirmative. "It used to eat me up, the guilt. I think I must have let nostalgia color my memory of you because knowing now what you did, what you made me go through, I think my initial assessment might have been correct."

Sherlock flinched again at that. "I'm not a machine."

"No, you're right. My tele's never got up and left when I stopped watching it."

"You're just being cruel."

" _I'm_ being cruel? No, cruel, Sherlock, was making me believe I held your dead wrist between my fingers, making me think I was looking at your brains on the pavement, making me look into what I thought were the sightless eyes of my best friend and think that I had put him there. I mean, I know you have a flair for the dramatic but come on. Did you get a little thrill watching me collapse in shock?"

"No!" He shouted. "I never thought...I didn't know you would...I didn't know."

"Fine excuse, that. 'I didn't know.' Do you know how close you came to receiving a picture of my body hanging from this doorway?"

He sucked in a breath. Mycroft had lied to him, had said John was fine. His stomach twisted at the image painted. "I didn't know," he repeated lamely, knowing it would never be an excuse again.

"Cause and consequence, Sherlock. Ever heard of it? Children grasp the concept fairly quickly and seeing as you're a genius, you'd think you'd have caught on by now," he spit sarcastically. 

"Now you're being cruel on purpose," Sherlock accused angrily.

"Yes. I am." He stared unflinchingly from the doorway. 

"But why?" He looked John over for clues, and John let him. "You've never been one for cruelty for the sake of it, a left over from childhood, abusive father. The physical retaliation I understand but verbal? Out of character. So why now? Has your experience in my absence really changed you that much? Perhaps Mary had a hand in it? No, you'd never propose to a woman who brought out the worst in you." John cocked an amused eyebrow at that. His eyes were bright and he smiled, but it was anything but friendly. He looked menacing, chilling really. Here stood Captain John H. Watson, aggressor. "Oh," he whispered in realization and pathetically shivered.  "Punishment."

"Punishment," John agreed cheerfully and walked forward.

"For...jumping?" He questioned uncertainly as he backed up.

"No. For moaning when I wrapped my hands around your throat. For pushing your cock against my ass while I was trying to kill you."

His back hit the counter. "Oh." He tried to come up with a response that contained something more than monosyllables. It took several seconds of swallowing and frantic thought processing. "I can explain."

"I'd love to hear it," he drawled with a twitch of his eyebrow.

Sherlock licked his lips. "Pavlovian response."

John cocked his head. "What?"

"It refers to Ivan Pavlov, an experiment he conducted-"

"Yes I know what it is," he snapped. "I'm fuzzy on the part where you seem to think I trained you to do...that. I think I'd remember it."

He shook his head. "No, not you. The Serbians. The Turks before that. Probably long buried childhood issues before _that_."

"Explain," John demanded darkly. 

He did his best to answer without showing his hand. "I've never been interested in sex. You know this." John looked skeptical, with good reason. "I wasn't. But I have always had a interest in...I guess you could call it a fetish, though I'm loathe to use such a base term, with dominance."

John quirked a smile. "You're dad a little too free with the belt as well?"

"No. Just the opposite actually. I was never punished. It had an adverse reaction as I matured."

"You act out for attention," John stated dryly with a knowing nod.

"I do not."

"Yes you do, it all makes sense now. You are quite the glutton for pain, aren't you?  Christ, it even explains Irene as well," he muttered in disgust. 

"Irene?" He queried, the abrupt subject change throwing him.

"Well, yeah," John waved vaguely, "Obviously."

He shook his head in confusion. 

"Sherlock, she was a dominatrix."

"Oh, yes. I had forgotten that." John scowled in disbelief and Sherlock waved his hand to dispel the topic.  "Not the point. You asked about the response and I'm trying to tell you it was just instinctual. End of story. No need for further discussion."

John blinked up at him neutrally. "You're saying it had nothing to do with me?"

"Yes," he lied. It had _everything_ to do with John. Aggressive dominance gave him an erection. John made him want to have sex. 

"So if I was to reach into your house coat uninvited right now and find you hard in your trousers...it would just be an instinctual reaction to dominant behavior? Not to me specifically?"

Sherlock didn't have an answer for that. He couldn't even breathe. The damn house coat was the only thing hiding the erection he'd had since John walked up the stairs, now it was rendered ineffectual. John must have taken his silence for some sort of a sign because he closed the distance between them and reached for the tie at his waist. Shock snapped him out of his stupor in time to grab John's wrist and stop him.

"What are you doing?"

"Whatever I want," John answered quietly. 

A shiver raced down his spine at the announcement but he did his best to ignore it. "You don't want this."

"Don't I?" He looked Sherlock up and down. "Don't you?"

"Irrelevant. This isn't want you really want. You're just angry."

"God damn right I'm angry," he quietly growled. "Two years. Wasted. And for what? So you could gallivant across the globe without me, loosen the reigns a bit with the dull side kick off your back?" He opened his mouth to argue but John snapped, "Shut up. I'm not finished," and he smashed his lips shut on command. "You want the truth? You started something in the restaurant, and I won't be satisfied until I finish it. Are we clear?" 

He shook with nerves, adrenaline spiked his pulse until he could barely think straight. Maybe they  _should_ do this. Maybe it was the one thing that would allow John to forgive him so they could move on. Maybe it was just his penis talking, he wasn't sure, but the logic seemed sound. He was close to giving in, just one last problem to address.

"What about Mary?"

Wrong thing to say apparently.

John snatched the hand Sherlock used to hold his own and turned it against him. He found himself turned around, facing the sink, with his arm pinned behind his back. John leaned in and whispered in his ear, "I don't want to talk about Mary right now. Do you?"

He shook his head, felt the curls against his forehead as they swung back and forth. 

"Good. Now, is there anything on the table that is toxic, flammable or explosive?"

He thought quickly about the current roster of experiments.

"No, just the.." John used his free hand to clear the table before he yanked him practically off his feet and slammed him face down onto the surface, "... tissue samples," he panted.

John pulled his other arm and pinned both wrists together with one hand, pressed them into the small of his back. Sherlock thought, briefly, that he could(probably) get out of the hold if he wanted to. He didn't want to. When John scratched his nails against his scalp and tugged sharply at his hair he though he was going to prematurely ruin his trousers. He panted hard against the wood of the kitchen table and did his best not to whinge. 

"Have you ever done this before?" John asked congenially, as if they were starting a game of chess. 

"Yes." He had, technically. 

John caught the hesitation though. "Willingly?" He asked darkly. 

"I didn't think you were in the frame of mind to care."

John yanked on his hair again and he did whinge that time. "Insults, Sherlock? Answer the question."

"Some willing, some...not," he answered, ashamed. 

He heard John breathe behind him. He ran the hand that held his hair down his back(he hoped he couldn't feel the welts through his shirt and housecoat) and stopped just above and to the left of his arse. "We'll only do this if you want to," he muttered softly, the hands currently pinning his arms and squeezing his hip added discrepancy to his statement. "Do you want to?" He asked when Sherlock remained quiet. 

"Is that really the point?" He countered. 

 John then shoved the full length of his cock against Sherlock's arse and pulled him back against it. "I don't know, Sherlock, why don't you tell me the _point_ and we'll go from there?"

"Oh," he moaned, unable to keep from thrusting back against the man. "Fuck it." His forehead hit the table with a thud. John chuckled behind him. 

"I do believe that's the first time I've heard that word from your mouth. I'm so proud."

"I'll say it in whatever language you want, just...ugh," he groaned as he tried not to shimmy against John and failed. 

John laughed some more. "Just what?"

"You know what," he snapped. 

John pulled on his hair again, and shivers wracked his frame. "Yeah, I know but maybe I want to hear you say it."

There was nothing for it. He was far too gone to let pride stand in his way now. "Fuck me, John Watson." 

John bent over Sherlock's back and groaned. He could feel John twitch in his trousers and an answering throb pulsed through his own. When John spoke he could feel his breath warm against his skin through the house coat. "What? No foreplay?" He mumbled. 

"I think we've had enough foreplay."

"Yes," John agreed. "Far too much. Maybe next time."  

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. _Next time._ They both heard the implied statement. Without acknowledgment, John used his free hand to reach underneath to pull the house coat open. He flung it to the side and reached back underneath to undo his trouser snap. Sherlock thought he was going to cry when he was finally freed from the restricting cloth. He did cry out when John wrapped a hand around him and squeezed.

"I better not," he said and let go, to Sherlock's dismay. "You're soaking wet, you'll probably go off like a Brimstone missile." He pulled both trousers and pants down to his ankles and pulled one leg out so he could kick them further apart. "Oh, very nice," he muttered.

"Thanks," Sherlock mumbled back, practically delirious with lust.

 John snorted. "I'm still quite pissed off at you, understand. Not a very nice thing, thrusting a hard cock at me in front of my girl friend. I've thought of little else for days. I've a medical practice to run, you know."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"Nope," he agreed as he rolled his forehead on the table. 

"I was sure you had branded me." When he unpinned his arms from his back so he could pull his own trousers down, Sherlock gripped at the edge of the table, desperate to find purchase. "I can still feel you, just here." He shifted until his prick sat snugly between his legs. Sherlock groaned at the feel, the moist heat of him, as their cocks rubbed together. "You bastard," he mumbled and then spit into his hand and, without hesitation, wiped saliva against his hole. Sherlock gripped the table so hard he thought it would splinter into kindling. 

"John," he whinged. 

"Shh, not long now," he crooned. A finger penetrated, rubbing circles inside, smoothing the saliva around and around. He thought he'd die from it but then another finger joined the first and he _knew_ he would die from it. While John toyed with stretching his muscles, his prick continued to rub between Sherlock's legs, back and forth, knocking his bullocks together and generally making a nuisance of itself. It was too much and not enough.  

 "John, hurry up," he growled.

"Oi. I don't know if you've deduced it yet but I'm not exactly a small man."

"I don't care, don't care, don't care..." He mumbled incoherently as a third finger joined the rest and stretched him wide. Every pass drew closer to his prostrate and he knew if John even lightly touched it he _would_ go off like a missile. Despite this knowledge, he still pushed back against John's fingers, his body desperate for that connection. 

"Needy little thing, aren't you? I should have known," John muttered. He leaned in and whispered close to his ear, "I want you to know, I'm doing this for me, not for you. Do you understand? I'll have my way and you'll be lucky if I want to see you again after."

Sherlock nodded quickly, his understanding clear. John needed him to believe this because John himself need to believe this. The hand he used to pet and kneed at his waist spoke of a different sentiment though. They both had needed this for a long time, John was just using his anger to negate his guilt, to justify their actions to himself. So be it. He'd wanted this for too long to argue with the man.

"Ready?"

The fact that he'd even asked belayed his concern, his care. Out of character, that. Sherlock smiled against the surface of the table. "Obvious," he breathed. 

John chuckled. "I suppose it is." With that he spit harshly again, which caused another pulse of Sherlock's cock, the sound dirty and deliciously erotic, and suddenly John was there, pushing at his entrance. They fell silent after that. Only the sound of the table legs against the floorboards, the tick of the clock and their harsh breathing could be heard. Each glorious inch he pushed was like an eternity in the ever after. It burned, thanks to saliva being a sub par lubricant, but he relished every tug. This was his fantasy come to life, and his mind had conjured nothing close to the reality. A thousand Spanish dancers, a million Italian Casanova's, an infinite number of French lovers...nothing could compete with John Watson's fingers at his hips, _his_ sweat dripped onto the floor, _his_ cock stretching the limits inside him. This was what Sherlock had craved when others had dared the same, allowed entrance or not, it was John in his mind, always. And now here they were, pushing against each other, panting, groaning, connected, the closest that two people could be and still survive.

John's hand glided up to the collar of his house coat and tugged. He allowed it to be pulled away, gladly, and when John reached underneath to rip at his shirt he helped to yank that off as well. A still callous rough hand caressed up and down his naked skin, and had he been in his right mind he'd have worried at John seeing his ruined back, but as it was all he could feel was ecstasy at the sting. John brought both hands up and under his arms to tug him up off the table and press them close. They had hit a turning point it seemed, no longer aggressor and submissive, but two men, each equally desperate for the other.

John rested his forehead against the base of Sherlock's neck and panted loudly, one could argue a keening could be heard amongst the exhalation but John would surely argue against that accusation. The sweat along his spine heated and cooled as John breathed and Sherlock, endeared with this unexpected sensation, couldn't help his actions, truly, when he reached for John's fingers at his shoulder and intertwined them with his own. He had a few precious seconds of this, John even squeezed back at first, before the man snarled and tugged them away. 

"No," he growled. 

If Sherlock felt a twinge of rejection, it was quickly overpowered by a flood of adrenaline so strong he swore aloud. John, clearly trained in the art, had wrapped his comparatively small hand around Sherlock's throat and squeezed. Oh, it was glorious. His thumb stroked at his jugular just before it clamped down and cut off his blood supply. It seemed they were in a race to finish line because John, along with cutting of Sherlock's airway, had started roughly pounding into him, damn near upending the kitchen table in the process. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming in again and Sherlock no longer cared if he seemed needy or desperate or pathetic. He clutched at John's hand at his throat with one of his own and with the other he tugged off his shoulder and brought down to his cock. He half expected John to deny him the pleasure but never let it be said that John Watson was an inconsiderate lover. Spots darted in front of his eyes and he lost the last bit of air in his lungs to a groan so deep it rocked his chest.

Approximately four pulls later and Sherlock came with a visceral surge that here onto rivaled serial murderers, viral mutation discovery and Mycroft falling down a flight of stairs combined. It wasn't until after John gave a shocked cry and stilled inside him that he thought to loosen his grip on Sherlock's throat. When he was finally able to breathe, Sherlock coughed until the darkness cleared from his field of vision.

Christ, John could have killed him...

Sherlock couldn't be happier.

Even after John pulled away, leaving his empty and bereft of his warmth, he still breathed a bit easier than he had for the last two years. Maybe even before that. The weight in his chest, that dark, living mass, the absence of John like a burden forced upon him to carry around his neck, was gone. If John walked away now and never spoke to him again(he wouldn't) Sherlock knew he could live with this, just this memory. It would feed his erotic fantasies for the rest of his days, and likely comfort him on the nights that his loneliness couldn't be placated with experiments or Mrs. Hudson's nattering.

John fell heavy into the chair and left Sherlock lying face down on the table again. He rolled his face towards the man and watched his chest rise and fall, had to push his sweat soaked hair from his eyes to do so, but the simple act of watching John Watson breathing was a privilege Sherlock would no sooner waste than his own breath. He'd let John come to his own conclusions as to his feelings but as long as he was there (home) Sherlock would not waste one second. 

"Tea?" Sherlock asked quietly, voice rough with soreness. 

John gave a tiny smile, just the barest of lips twitches, his eyes still closed and still breathing heavy. "You go clean up. I'll make the tea."

He rose on shaky legs and shambled toward the loo. Before Sherlock turned the corner he looked John over once more. Hair sticking up on end, sweat still rolling down his neck, jumper balled up at his feet, and calculated John's permanent return to Baker Street within two weeks.  

He was never wrong.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know spit isn't proper lubrication for anal sex. That was half the point. I also didn't want Sherlock to have been raped during his incarceration but he thought differently apparently. Sorry about that. You know how he can be, willful little shit. As always, feedback is a must for needy writers like me. Let me know what you think and feel free to let me know if there are any tags for triggers I should include. Come find me on Tumblr as well at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


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